


Stole The Sun From My Heart

by Aris



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Feelings, Gen, Mild Gore, Post-Nogitsune, Stiles Angst, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 17:45:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3737839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aris/pseuds/Aris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>We don't blame you Stiles, it wasn't your fault, Stiles (we were going to kill you Stiles, we were going to kill you to keep the monster out, to keep everyone safe.)</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stole The Sun From My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> [Prompt:](http://norsed.tumblr.com/post/116308266538/i-dont-know-if-im-prompting-this-right-but-can)  
>  "...can you write a fic of stiles post nogitsune, pretty pretty please? i dont mind if its short but i love void!stiles and it was a letdown in the show when they didnt explore the effect on stiles and i think you could do it really well"
> 
> I hope it's good enough OP? It IS really short.
> 
>  
> 
> [title cred](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YkDaCWXIXCE)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [prompt me ^_^](http://norsed.tumblr.com)

_One, two, three, four, five._

His fingers flex before him, the skin almost translucent in its stretch over brittle bone. Rivers of blood flow in blue under the pitched tarp of his epidermis, twisting down the side of his palm and diving down into his wrist, fading out of view beneath his flesh. Five fingers grip the wheel of his Jeep, five long spidery fingers. Five is good. Five is right.

He take a deep breath, ripping his drawn-out gaze away from the appendages and catching his own eye in the rear view mirror. They're set deeply in his face, familiar off-blood bruises hollowing out beneath his waterline, dry skin catching in wrinkles and a shade on the pasty side (the unpleasant not-yellow of his grandmothers ornate bathroom). Dark pupils punctuate the scratched copper of his eyes, absolute where his iris's are nothing but dulled colour and bronze age artifacts, unnatural set against the twenty pound shadows clawing at his eyelashes. He doesn't look - he doesn't look good. He sees the mirror and he thinks sterile, he thinks wrong, and he thinks of the man hobbling by his mother's hospital room nine years ago, grasping onto a walking frame, liver-spotted skin rubbing up white against the mobility aid.

Ten minutes later, she died.

Stiles saw him just last week. Still holding onto the frame, still pulling himself along, pushing through life like he's submerged under a great body of water. Stiles wants him to drown, to fill his white head with water and burst every capillary worming deep in his brain - because it's not fair. Claudia was forty-three, and Stiles was nine and it just wasn't _fair_. He wants to break his bones and crush his organs, dry his eyes out and grind them to dust. Instead, he smiles, says _Hey, Hello, How Are You_ to Melissa and digs his nails so deep into his skin he can trace the crescent scars three weeks later, moonlight spilling over his palms as he sits at his bedroom window.

So it's; one, two, three, four, five, and Stiles opens the Jeep door on one, climbs out on two, grabs his bag on three and pushes through the school door by five. His locker is cold when he touches it, freezing when he leaves it, and open when Scott arrives. Scott is - sunshine where Stiles is snow, and it takes all he can not to crowd him against a wall, push under his skin and rest against his warm arteries, thaw out on his beating heart. Scott smiles a rainbow, and when Stiles smiles back he feels like his teeth are too sharp, predatory, in his mouth, feeling like he could rip someone's throat out, like they're too crowded and too triangular where they sit in his gums. He thinks, _shark attack._ And Lydia doesn't touch his arm when she shows up.

Nobody touches him anymore, and sometimes he wants to ask if it's because he killed Allison. If it's because he smiled the same with a sword deep in Scott's guts, if it's because he laughed when he heard the tearing of membranes and the squelching of blood when the blade twisted _just so_. They say that - no, it wasn't him. It was the Nogitsune, a monster, a demon treading bandages and darkened sludge in the ridges of Stiles's throat, stepping on his creaking ribcage like a stairway to some kind of enlightenment. _We don't blame you Stiles, it wasn't your fault Stiles (we were going to kill you Stiles, we were going to kill you to keep the monster out, to keep everyone safe.)_

He doesn't have the guts to tell them that the Nogitsune is not a definite being, a soul to itself. Because the door was ajar, the scar open, and the void was a suggestion. A possibility. The Void was dark, and cold, and more like a black hole than an exploding star. It slipped into his mind, scuttling down the shadow cast by his outreaching hand (to the door, it was open - what's behind it?). It crept it and it wound round and round and round the ragged edges of what Stiles had left, tucked in between the flashes of icy baths and white rooms. It said - _what's this_? And gnarled the lonely puzzle piece that was late nights on his own, dad working and Scott busy; the piece that rattled like a bottle of adderall, that felt like panic attacks and heart attacks and the smell of a terminal hospital ward. It said - _we can fix this_ , and twisted the wire in Stiles where he knew he would kill for the people he loved, where he maim and injure and torture if anyone dare laid a hand on someone precious; it twisted it back on itself, a snake on its own tail, and Stiles wondered why his dad took on so much work when he didn't need to, why Scott blew him off so often for Allison or Kira or Isaac. Why Lydia could never even look at him, let him down gently.

And ~~they~~ Stiles plunged a sword into Scott's stomach (pancreas, kidney) and he couldn't let go, couldn't go back, and the tugging at his lips wasn't him and his hand weren't warm with blood anymore, were cold pressed up against the metal of a locker and he can't get out, wants out so bad. _Let me in, let me in_ , it says. His own face is cold and greying and he gathers up what's not twisted and flayed and dosed in ice, and he holds it in the light cast by the holes in the locker, doesn't let the shadow touch it.

 _Please, no,_ he had begged.

And then he watched his own face crack open in front of him, the bad leaking out into the air, and he waited - because, that was it. It was over. They were gone. Except when he reached back into his mind, wrenched the locker door open and pulled the remaining shards of himself out, the lights went out and the shadow spilled in. The rot sets in and his hands shake as he decays from the inside - flesh to mindless gore and sleep to breathless nightmares. He feels death squirm under the surface, nestle in his heart and break off crystals of ice into his blood. He can't get warm anymore, can't feel the sun anymore . He wants to dig into the skin of others, nest between their organs and press his face to where they are warm and light, where he is dark and barren and unbearably cold.

The bell rings, and Scott laughs, and Stiles down at his hands where he grasps his English folder.

_One, two, three, four..._


End file.
